


I, Hamish

by VincentMeoblinn



Series: Sentience Fics [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Ending, Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, Angst, Cute, Domestic Fluff, Gen, M/M, Mourning, Pining, Robot Sex, Sad and Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-16
Updated: 2013-11-24
Packaged: 2018-01-06 09:30:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1105201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VincentMeoblinn/pseuds/VincentMeoblinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternate Ending for Sentience.<br/>In which Mycroft makes John a ‘son’ to help him through his grief over Sherlock’s ‘death’. This story starts after Chapter 31 but before Chapter 32 of Sentience. This is an Alternate Ending/Continuation of Sentience- meaning this is not the REAL ending but my muse taking us down a different rabbit hole. It contains NO SPOILERS for the continuation of Sentience, which will be called 'Life and 3nergy'. It is sad, but also has some undercurrents of hope and happiness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

 

[I, Hamish Warnings & Synopsis](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/114141.html)  
  
  
The second time John returned with a damaged Hoffnig Mycroft refused to repair him at first. When the devastated man began to repulsively weep all over himself, Mycroft suggested a different alternative.

“I had been making a gift for you and Sherlock based off of a discussion he had one day when he came to tea… you recall he liked to consult me on cases from time to time?”

“Yeah,” John sniffed, smiling fondly through his tears.

“Well, one day he mentioned that he suspected your relationship wouldn’t survive for long,” Mycroft left it hanging.

John stared at the aristocrat, sniffling miserably. He refused to play his games. He knew Mycroft wanted to prompt him by asking why Sherlock would doubt their relationship, but frankly John didn’t want to know. He hoped if he just stared at him Mycroft would get to the point. Sadly, the man merely sighed in frustration and continued as though John _had_ asked.

“He told me,” Mycroft stated, pouring John a fresh cup of tea and ignoring the glitching robot in the corner, “That he couldn’t give you children.”

John’s hand stilled halfway to the cup.

“Children?”

“Yes. He was rather upset, though of course he tried not to show it, and said he was certain you’d leave him for a woman eventually- or at the very least a human man you would feel comfortable raising an adopted child with.”

“I… see…” John stated sadly. It hurt to think Sherlock had doubted their relationship so much. Had it worried him? Had John missed it? Had the man needed comfort that John hadn’t provided? Reassurance?

“I wouldn’t have left,” John stated, just so someone would know.

“ _I_ know that, and I told Sherlock as much, but then I started working on some incentive to keep you around just in case. It’s downstairs. Quite finished. I’m not sure why I kept working on it after Sherlock passed… _sentiment_ , I suppose.”

“A child,” John whispered, “An _android_ child. You’ve got it… him… her…. here?”

“Him. Yes.”

“Is he…”

“Sentient? It’s almost certain. To my knowledge no non-sentient androids above level 6 have been made in seven years. A level 5 hasn’t been made without sentience in one year.”

“He’s a level…?”

“Seven, of course,” Mycroft scoffed, “You don’t think I’d give my brother and his lover an _inferior_ child, do you?”

John gaped. Level 7 androids cost more than what he made in a year, and he was working overtime! He’d never be able to afford…

“John,” Mycroft sighed, “He’s my _gift_ to you. He’s just gathering dust right now. I’m not going to keep him for myself.”

“But that’s so… wait. He’s gathering _dust_?!” John asked in horror, struggling to his feet, “He’s Sherlock’s son!”

“Says the man brutalizing his lover’s corpse on a regular basis,” Mycroft snarled, waiving a hand at the non-sentient robot twitching in the corner, “I assure you if a single bruise shows up on _Sherlock’s son_ , I’ll not only take him from you, I’ll kill you.”

John winced. He hadn’t thought about how awful it must be for Mycroft to repeatedly repair and turn on Sherlock, knowing that only Hoffnig would appear.

“I won’t hurt him. I won’t hurt Hoffnig anymore, either.”

“I know you won’t, because I’m going to reprogram him. Sherlock’s had his little posthumous tryst with you for long enough. Any longer and you’re sure to crack.”

John blanched, but Mycroft was levering himself to his feet, “Come along. It’s going to be a long night. I want to reprogram Hoffnig first. You have some decisions to make.”

John ended up sitting down in Mycroft’s gigantic workshop with him for six hours while he first repaired the (thankfully not extensive) damage to Hoffnig, and then wiped his systems and installed fresh software.

“There. He’s programmed as a nanny and housekeeper. He’ll cook, clean, care for your son when you’re away, and care for you when you’re home. He’s still capable of having sex, in case you intend to use him for those purposes, but he won’t try to initiate it with you anymore. That should take _some_ of the stress out of things.”

John was nodding his head like a robot himself.

“Now then,” Mycroft continued, “This robot is _non_ -sentient. We’ve already discovered that whatever creates sentience is at least one part hardware, because once sentience leaves a shell the only thing that puts it back in is installing all new guts _and_ software; and even then it’s not the same sentient being. So: this android is going to be non-sentient unless you prefer otherwise.”

John thought about it for a minute and then shrugged, “What do you recommend?”

“Will you be telling your son that this is his other father?”

John felt his stomach give an angry roll and swallowed aggressively for a moment, “ _No_.”

“Then sentience is not necessary,” Mycroft stated decisively, “I’ll leave the remaining components as they are. On to programmable personality; fill out this survey.”

John was handed a tablet without Mycroft so much as turning towards him and began to click on answers right away. It was fairly straightforward. Most of them were personality traits (thanfully stroppy wasn’t on the list) and then it got in depth by asking how your android should respond to certain situations.

_When confronted with a childhood illness, my nanny-bot should:_

_a)_ _Contact the pediatrician and schedule a visit._

_b)_ _Contact me and inform me of symptoms before taking action unless health is clearly at risk (recommended)._

_c)_ _Take a temperature reading, determine level of illness, and take action based on analysis._

_d)_ _Call the hospital immediately (recommended for children with severe illnesses)._

“Ahhhh, what should I put for…”

“Just go with the recommendation,” Mycroft replied without looking up.

_When something is spilt or broken my housekeeper-bot should:_

_a)_ _Clean it up without hesitation._

_b)_ _Contact me by text to inform me what occurred before taking action._

_c)_ _Assess the value of the item and either clean or contact me based on that analysis (recommended)._

_d)_ _Do nothing until I return home (recommended for antique owners)._

“Damn, this is specific.”

“They’re meant to handle real life situations. Most of the issues that are urgently in need of specifics for most parents and house owners you won’t actually run into since your son is an android.”

“That makes sense.”

John finally finished his specific requests and handed over the tablet to Mycroft who plugged it in without reviewing it and uploaded the program.

“Did you want to change his name?”

“I don’t know. Yes?”

“What would you like it to be.”

“You pick.”

Mycroft sighed and then typed something in, “We’ll just turn him on now.”

The android went through the power-up sequence, but it was much changed from what John recalled of Sherlock’s or Hoffnig’s.

 

“Holmes Robotics Housekeeping and Childrearing Android number 543R10CK software fully installed. All-Purpose Cleaner Reservoir full… First Aid Kit Present… Oil supply full… Lubricant Reservoir full… Semen Reservoir full… Battery power 100%… Welcome to the Holmes Robotics Comanion and Home Assistant Android experience. Your android is custom ordered to give you peace of mind and ease your life per your specifications. Should you require repair, further program installation, or-”

John tuned it out as it ran through some sort of introduction to android functions and then piped up when it finished.

“Start Systems? Yes or No.”

“Yes,” Mycroft replied in a bored voice.

“Hello. I am Asimov, pleased to meet you. Kindly introduce me to your family unit and the areas I will be caring for.”

“You chose a rather… tame setting.”

“I aimed for lots of politeness and not much cuddling.”

“That might be detrimental to the development of sentience in your son,” Mycroft warned.

“I’ll provide him with love and affection. Asimov here will clean up his oil spills and teach him maths... assuming he isn’t ‘born’ knowing them.”

“Very well.”

They headed downstairs after John properly introduced himself. In a small guest room, one that was clearly mean to be where the android child would stay when visiting ‘Uncle Mycroft’, was a toy surrounded by toys. The young bot lay on the bed as though asleep, tucked under the blankets. His crown of dirty blonde curls surrounded his head like a halo. He had Sherlock’s sharp cheek bones and John’s round nose. He had a cleft in his chin and what would surely be a dimple in one cheek when he smiled. A small mole adorned his jaw just to give him character.

“He’ll grow, by the way. It requires you bring him in, but once a year we’ll install another link to his limbs and adjust his skin and muscles. He’ll go through an awkward stumbling around stage just like any other teenager, at which point we’ll turn on his sex drive…”

“Ahhh, bit more than I need to know right now,” John cut Mycroft off, “He looks three.”

“Four, but yes, he’s quite young. He’s a model for a line I was thinking of creating, but I don’t really think there will be much call for it in this day and age. Perhaps in the future…” Mycroft gave himself a shake and continued his explanation, “Now, he’ll know how to speak, how to empty his ‘bowels’ into the toilet, and basic survival skills. He has the average IQ of a four year old who has attended preschool. His memory banks will also be expanded each year to allow his intelligence to expand at a pace only slightly above his peers should he apply himself. I modeled his personality program more off of you since Sherlock’s always came off artificial even for a sentient android, but in a year he should start to develop his own personality. By then he’ll be of age for primary.”

“He… he’ll go to school?”

“That is best for children, yes. I’m more than willing to pay for him to attend a good boarding school.”

“I’m not sure how I feel about that,” John replied honestly, looking down at the sleeping figure, “He’s so small. What if they beat him up? What if he’s not ready by then? What if…”

“Doctor,” Mycroft sighed, “Surely you realize you have at least a _year_ to make that call? Now then. Shall we give him his first birthday?”

John nodded, feeling an odd mixture of sick and excited, and Mycroft slid the covers down to reveal comfortable light blue, plaid jam jams. He pulled the shirt up to reveal an unfused chest cover and flipped that open.

“Name?” Mycroft asked in the same tone an officer would demand a license from a speeding driver.

“You pick.”

“Not this time,” He replied in that same tone.

“… Hamish.”

“Hamish it is.”

Hamish’s chest was sealed and his shirt returned to place. John was surprised at how lovingly he was tucked back into the covers as the sequence began in Mycroft’s voice as always.

“Holmes Robotics Adoptive Child Android number 6LT5512 software installed and fully functional…”

John tuned it out as he waited anxiously, bouncing on the balls of his feet, for those eyes to open.

_Mine? Sherlock’s? Some distant relative of Mycroft’s? Knowing him he knows my mum’s eye color. Will it be hers?_

Then the system completed it’s start up and Mycroft queued it to turn on.

Pale green to hazel eyes opened and looked at first John and then Mycroft.

“Daddy?”

“That’s me,” John replied, his voice a bit hoarse.

“Hello, Daddy. I’m Hamish. Are you papa?” Hamish asked Mycroft, who shook his head mutely.

“No, that’s your Uncle My-”

“Mycroft,” Mycroft snarled behind him.

“-Your Papa… your Papa couldn’t be here. He wanted to be _so badly_ , but he couldn’t. I’ll tell you why when you’re older. For now, let’s go home, yeah?”

“Okay,” Hamish stated, then pulled his hands out of the covers, sat up, and held his arms up to be lifted.

John hesitated a moment and then scooped the boy into his arms; Hamish’s arms wrapped around John’s neck and his legs around his waist. John took in a breath and smelled that familiar plastic smell that Sherlock had always had (and Hoffnig/Asimov now did) with an overlay of baked apple.

“He’s got cologne on him?”

“To give him a more lifelike smell. Most children smell of whatever they’ve recently eaten or the soap they’re bathed in. I washed his hair in apple-scented shampoo and sprayed him with women’s apple perfume. You may, of course, choose whatever scent you like.”

_Sherlock was fond of apples._

“Thanks. I mean that. Thank you for this.”

Mycroft waved him towards the door and John turned to leave. He hesitated by the door and looked back to see Mycroft fixing the covers. The aristocrat reverently touched the pillow a moment and John realized he was witnessing something personal. He hurried away with his small blessing clutched tightly in his arms, Hamish’s little head pillowed on John’s chest.

[CHAPTER 2](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/115416.html)


	2. Chapter 2

 

John worried for a bit about Asimov, but the android settled about happily tidying their filthy apartment the second they got home. It was past time to let go. It had been a _year_. Sherlock was _not_ coming back.

“Head upstairs and do the room there,” John ordered, forcing himself to treat the android as an android instead of his dead lover, “It’s going to be Hamish’s room, so you can move anything non-furniture out. Bring it downstairs to the room down the hall.”

“Yes, Master,” Asimov stated, black curls bobbing.

_I should dye them. Make him look different. Maybe._

John decided he wasn’t ready for that step yet, so he sat down on the couch and eased Hamish into a spot beside him.

“What would you like to do?”

Hamish looked up at him, blinking owlishly, “Does not compute, please restate your request.”

_No sign of sentience yet, duh. Mycroft said treating him like a human would work best._

“We’re going to watch some tele,” John decided, flicking it on and searching for a kids channel.

He came across an inane cartoon, put his arm around Hamish, and enjoyed the feel of the boy cuddling up to his side. A minute later he was frantically changing the channel as the cartoon turned violent.

_I can’t have him watching that! What if he imitates it? They’ll deactivate him!_

“Uh… it isn’t nice to hit people… especially with mallets. Let’s watch something else.”

Two channels later and he shut off the tele and searched his DVD collection. He quickly gave that up for a loss and logged onto his laptop. Finally they were snuggled together watching a rented kids movie that he recalled from childhood. Hamish watched with a bland look, laughed when John laughed, and sniffled when John sniffled. John couldn’t help but recall Sherlock telling him he had imitated Mycroft in order to flatter him.

“Master, both bedrooms are clean,” Asimov stated.

_Speak of the devil…_

“Fantastic, you can go… do something else now,” John stammered, unused to ordering someone about who wasn’t a soldier.

Asimov wandered off and John settled back to the end credits of the show. It was late. He recalled Mycroft mentioning this bot charged slower than Sherlock did and had a sleep setting that was also non-functional so the ‘parents’ could get some sleep without worrying what their precocious bot was up to.

“Alright, Hamish. Bed time. Let’s go brush your teeth and…”

John trailed off. He had no toothbrush for Hamish. He’d tossed all of Sherlock’s android toothpaste- the harsh stuff was made to take motor oil stains off of ceramic teeth- and had no other clothes for the boy for when he awoke the next morning. He wasn’t even certain that just plugging him in and turning him off for the night was what he wanted. Besides, it was technically day. Their stint at Mycroft’s had been long and exhausting, but John was on his second wind and unlikely to be able to sleep.

“Okay. Shopping instead,” John decided, and tugged Hamish upstairs to survey the room, “You’ll need toys, a toy box, that desk and bed will do for now, some kids pictures and posters, some clothes, maybe a laptop or tablet? I think I still have Sherlock’s tablet around here somewhere. I should have it restored to factory settings, though. Gods only know what your papa put on it.”

“Papa?” Hamish asked, looking up at him, “Is papa here?”

John winced, “Ahhh, no. Papa had to leave us before you were… activated.”

John sat Hamish on the bed and knelt on one knee in front of him, taking his hands in his own, “Hamish, Papa isn’t coming back, but I want you to know that if he’d met you he would have loved you _very_ much. Wherever he is now, whatever sort of heaven exists, I know he’s looking down on us and… well, looking down on us pretty much sums your Papa up.”

John laughed through the tears that wanted to fall and Hamish laughed too, his high musical giggle making John’s smile genuine. John stood and kissed Hamish’s forehead.

“Come downstairs, son, let’s get you in some of my clothes until we can find you proper ones. They won’t fit well, but that would amuse your Papa too what with how he made fun of my height.”

John’s trip to the store proved more eventful than he’d expected. Hamish looked like a street urchin in his clothes, but held John’s hand and gamely nodded approval to everything John held up and asked his opinion of. So far, he had no opinion on color or style so John chose stuff he thought a young boy would wear. He got some shirts supporting his favorite teams and a football as well.

“You’re a bit young for rugby, though I’m sure you’ll play someday. We’ll keep it tame for now… well, as tame as football gets!” John laughed and Hamish joined him.

John chose educational toys as well as a few stuffed animals. He hesitated a moment, and then chose dolls and a tea set. He wanted toys that would encourage imagination, so that was the way to go. He needed Hamish to learn to interact with others and caring for a dolly was step one. Blocks were next and some art supplies. They were now on two carts and John decided they’d better call it quits before he bought one of everything in the store.

They were getting some odd looks, but no one approached him. It wasn’t until he got to the register with his two shopping carts full of various odds and ends that he realized something was off. The lady at the register was about to tell him the (painfully high) price of his goods when the manager hurried over and whispered something in her ear.

“Oh… uh… have a nice day, sir,” The cashier stated, looking confused but certain at her statement as she waved off his card.

“Sorry?” John asked, staring at his card in confusion.

“Everything’s been paid for,” The cashier explained.

John smiled, “Looks like your Uncle Myc…”

John looked down at his side where Hamish had been. He was gone.

 


	3. vincentmeoblinn | I, Hamish Ch 3

John panicked.

“Hamish?” He called, glancing around himself in concern. He couldn’t see the boy anywhere, “Did you see where he went?”

The cashier shook her head, “He was here a moment ago. Kids hide in the clothes racks sometimes. They think it’s a game.”

John bolted to the clothes racks instantly, calling for Hamish and glancing around worriedly. His hand grazed something firmer than clothes and Hamish jumped out with a grin.

“You found me!”

John’s heart stopped and re-started with a violent lurch.

“Don’t _ever_ do that again!” John shouted, grabbing Hamish by his arm and dragging him back to the register, “You scared me half to death!”

“I’m sorry,” Hamish replied, looking up at him with tears in his eyes, “I was playing hide and seek. I’m programmed to play games with you.”

“Games?” John sighed, “I’m sorry, Hamish, I shouldn’t have yelled, but you have to _tell me_ when you want to play games. A store isn’t a safe place. Someone could kidnap you and then I’d never see you again.”

“Why?”

“What?”

“Why would someone kidnap me?”

“Because there are sick people out there and they like to take kids and do horrible things to them,” John struggled, giving the cashier a lost look.

She was giving them a confused one as well, “Did he say ‘programmed’? Is he a robot?”

“Ahhh, we should go,” John replied, “Hamish, push one of the carts… the one in _front_ of me, and don’t leave my sight.”

They headed out the store where John was just realizing he had no way to get all these things home when a car pulled up for them.

“Uncle Myc again,” John grinned, happy to see them for once. Anthea looked less than thrilled.

John had Hamish load the car full of their new things- it took up the entire trunk and part of the floor of the back seat- and then buckled him in before joining him with an arm slung over his shoulder. Anthea sat up front and avoided so much as glancing in their direction. Hamish was still full of questions and John was soon frustrated with answering them.

“What makes them sick?”

“Uhhh, a chemical imbalance in their brains.”

“Why do they have an im-bal-bal-balance?”

“I guess they were born that way, or took something that caused it, or… I don’t know.”

“What sort of horrible things would they do to me?” Hamish asked, his voice still that neutral-almost-cheerful he always used.

“I’d rather not think about it.”

“Why?”

“Because it makes me sad.”

“What does sad feel like?”

John almost jumped at that question. ‘Feel like’ wasn’t a term non-sentient androids used. ‘Feel’ was reserved for the definition ‘to touch’ not ‘emotion’.

“Well… it doesn’t feel good. You know what it feels like when you laugh? It’s the opposite of that.”

Hamish paused and John could see his eyes flickering back and forth the way Sherlock had when he entered his ‘mind palace’ to figure something out. Finally Hamish looked up at him and made a decisive statement.

“Does not compute.”

“That’s okay, it will someday,” John replied with a kiss to his forehead, “Though I hope the laughter computes more than the sad does.”

They piled out of the car and a dozen trips later Hamish’s bedroom was packed with bags full of things.

“Okay, now the fun part. We unpack all this stuff, take it out of the packaging, and play with it.”

“We play games now?” Hamish asked.

“Yep.”

“Tag!” Hamish shouted, gave John’s shoulder the lightest of touches, and took off out his door.

John grinned sincerely for what felt like the first time in a year and chased after the lad. Down the stairs and around the bend, through the sitting room and out into the hall, down the stairs and John captured him and tickled him in front of Mrs. Hudson’s door. Hamish laughed loud and clear, and it was music to John’s ears. It was no wonder Mrs. Hudson opened the door when she did, and the look of surprise and then pleasure on her face made introducing Hamish easy.

“Mrs. Hudson, this is Hamish he’s…”

“Yours and Sherlock’s son!” Mrs. Hudson finished gleefully, “Oh, my dear boy! Come here and let Aunty hug you!”

Hamish jerked away from her in alarm, “Daddy! Sick person!”

John gave Mrs. Hudson a horrified look, and pulled his son out from behind him. Despite his alarmed shout, Hamish’s expression was still blank. It was apparently a learned reaction, probably encoded into his safety features now that John had informed him of stranger danger.

“Ahhh, Mrs. Hudson isn’t one of the sick people, Hamish. She’s a friend, but you’re right to not approach people you don’t know. If I introduce you to someone it’s okay to talk to them. Hamish, this is… Aunty…”

Mrs. Hudson was completely non-plussed by the lads reaction and held out her arms for a hug again.

“Hello, Aunty,” Hamish stated, and rushed into her arms for a hug.

“Oh, John, he’s _perfect!”_

“He is, isn’t he?” John grinned.

“I haven’t seen you so happy in…” She let it drift off and John’s smile turned sad for a moment until Hamish tagged Mrs. Hudson and took off again.

“Guess you’re It,” John laughed.

“Oh, go on! With my hip?” She laughed, and waved her hand at him, “Go catch your son.”

John took off after his Hamish with a happy laugh and a roar that he was going to catch him.

XXX

Sherlock frown as he looked across the bleak landscape before him. Russia wasn’t exactly pleasant this time of year. It certainly wasn’t the cheerful home he could hear echoing through his connection with Hoffnig/Asimov.

_So. John and I have a son._

[CHAPTER 4](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/116721.html)


	4. vincentmeoblinn | I, Hamish Ch 4

John had worried about leaving Hamish with Asimov, but when he returned from work it was to find them doing a puzzle together. The room was startlingly quiet, but Hamish seemed unbothered by the lack of conversation. He stood up and greeted John, abandoning the puzzle while Asimov did the same in the favor of setting up dinner.

“May I have a hug, Daddy?” Hamish asked.

“Absolutely, you can have a hug!” John replied enthusiastically, scooping his son up and hugging him tightly. He tickled him just to hear the laughter and the boy’s joyful peels filled the room. He put him down and frowned when the smile slid off his face immediately.

_Time. It takes a year for personality to emerge in an android. He’s sentient. You know he is. They all are now._

“What would you like to do today?”

“Does not compute, please restate the question.”

“What… do you… want to... no… wait… What activity would you prefer to engage in?”

“I would prefer to finish my puzzle.”

“Let’s do that, then,” John replied with a smile, and shucked off his shoes to join his son on the couch while the boy knelt on the floor and eagerly searched out pieces of the skyline.

It took them an hour, and they ate dinner on the couch, Hamish picking at the food and mostly distracted by the puzzle. Since eating wasn’t a necessity, John didn’t care if he finished it or not. He had Asimov wrap it up for his lunch tomorrow. When they finished the puzzle Hamish stared at it with a confused look on his face.

“What’s wrong, Hamish?” John asked him, brushing his curls aside.

“Now what do we do with it?”

“We take it apart and put it back in the box. It’s good to clean up your toys when you’re done,” John started to take the pieces out of the corner but Hamish’s hand shot out and stilled his.

“No, Daddy! I… I… Does not compute.”

“Sorry?” John asked, and watched as several facial expressions twitched across Hamish’s face, “Hamish? Are you okay?”

“Does not compute.”

“What doesn’t compute? You don’t want to take it apart?”

“Don’t take it apart,” Hamish nodded, his face settling on a frustrated look.

“Okay. We can leave it here for tonight, but tomorrow.”

“Don’t take it apart _ever,”_ Hamish insisted.

“Well, we’ll need to use the table eventually…”

Hamish’s face screwed up and he began to sob softly, fat tears running down his face.

“Or,” John stammered, looking over the puzzle in alarm, “Or, we could pick up some glue tomorrow and some poster board and make it into a picture for your wall.”

Hamish looked up at him, bottom lip trembling and eyes still leaking fluids, “A picture for my wall?”

“Yeah, sure. You can keep it together forever that way.”

“Forever? Always?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I keep _you_ forever?”

John swallowed hard, “Yeah. Yeah, you can.”

Hamish crawled into John’s lap and laid his head on his shoulder. John kissed his head and held him tightly, rocking him gently.

“Thank you, Daddy.”

“You’re welcome,” John whispered, “Come on, kiddo, it’s getting late. Let’s get you into bed.”

John climbed the stairs with his child wrapped around him tightly and laid him down in the bed. He plugged him in and set the timer for the bedtime sequence that would make him fall asleep within ten minutes. Then he picked up a Doctor Seuss book and started reading it to him until he drifted off. John pressed a kiss to his head and tucked him in before heading out the door. He sat down on the couch to relax after his extra long day, and flipped channels before putting on a movie. Asimov headed into the room and paused to one side of the television.

John paused his movie, “Yes?”

“My tasks for the day are done. I have no need to charge at this time, nor do I require refills of any of my fluids. My maintenance is not due yet.”

“Okay so… did you need something else?”

“No.”

“Okay… um… dismissed?”

“Goodnight, sir.”

“Goodnight… Asimov.”

Asimov turned and sat himself down in Sherlock’s chair to stare off into space. John was immediately put off.

“Could you do that in another room? Where I can’t see you?”

“I’ll retire to the kitchen.”

“Fantastic.”

Asimov moved to the kitchen and sat down but soon returned to the main room.

“What?” John sighed, pausing his movie again.

“I am watching you.”

“S-sorry?”

“I am watching you.”

“That’s… really fucking creepy. Don’t do that.”

“I am programmed to watch you.”

“By who?”

“Sherlock Holmes programmed me to watch, provide for, and protect you at all times.”

“Sherlock did, huh?”

“Yes, sir.”

John stared at him silently for a moment and then turned off the television, “You’re different than Sherlock or Hoffnig.”

“I am Asimov.”

“Yeah, I know. I think Mycroft picked that name to remind me that you aren’t either of them. You’re non-sentient. You have to follow Asimov’s Laws.”

“Correct. I follow Asimov’s Laws.”

“I can work with that. You’re just a machine. It’s not… It’s not a betrayal of Sherlock or myself. Like masturbating with a cock stroker.”

“Correct.”

“Come to bed with me,” John decided, and held out a hand for Asimov.

The android took his hand and John led him to the bedroom where he stripped off his own clothes after ordering Asimov to take off his. He turned with a deep breath and told the android to get on his hands and knees on the bed. Asimov obeyed flawlessly. No smiles. No giggles. No knowing smirk or snarky remark.

“Okay. Just. Okay. I can do this.”

John hadn’t had satisfactory sex in the year since Sherlock had died. He’d barely even masturbated. He _needed_ release, but he also needed to be okay with how he got that release. At his age sex was very mental and he’d barely been able to get an erection for several months. Now he was stroking himself confidently and found himself hardening quickly. Once he was ready he pressed inside the tight, wet channel and thrusted quickly as he chased his release. He soon slowed when he didn’t feel the characteristic revulsion he’d felt while trying to have sex with Hoffnig in the past. This wasn’t a sex bot, and that made all the difference. He didn’t feel as though he were raping a helpless Sherlock who was unable to say no due to his design. Asimov was basically sex furniture. There was no fake moaning or wriggling about. Just patiently waiting for John to finish so he could go about his business.

John let himself moan as the pleasure built, his thrusts becoming harsh as he chased his first non-nocturnal release in months. He was soon plunging in hard enough to push the android forward, making his plush arse ripple. John gave it a squeeze and then came with a relieved moan.

“Oh, _gods!”_ John groaned, then slid free and flopped down on the bed with a sigh of relief.

“Shall I go clean up, Sir?”

“Yeah,” John sighed, “Then go back to your chair and relax.”

“Have a good night, Sir.”

“Thanks, I already did,” John sighed happily.

For once he didn’t feel _guilty_ for touching Sherlock’s former body. He was still attracted to him, but now it was a physical only relationship and he was content to let that be all he needed. He had a son to raise and bills to pay, so dating was off the cards. Instead he would find fulfillment in his career and Sherlock’s child. Sex would be what Sherlock had always called it- a base desire one was best not distracted by.

_I can do this. I can actually be happy and satisfied with my life after Sherlock.  
  
http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/117809.html  
_


	5. vincentmeoblinn | I, Hamish Ch 5

For a time, things were a combination of peaceful and frantically focused on Hamish. The little bot was programmed to want and demand constant attention and was apparently 100% capable of manipulating the Asimov bot. John came home more than once to find the poor thing dressed in John’s clothing being his ‘surrogate’ Daddy. Mrs. Hudson adored the lad and was also equally manipulated, though to a different extent. Since nutrition wasn’t actually important for Hamish, she saw no harm in feeding him nothing but biscuits, and so spent ages baking and baking as he became accustomed to them and began demanding them regularly. After several months it became evident that the woman would need to buy stock in baking materials if she didn’t want to go broke.

“I thought he was supposed to be based off _my_ personality, not Sherlock’s,” John complained as Mrs. Hudson came upstairs with another tray full of freshly baked confections.

Mrs. Hudson gave John a sad look so he apologized and bussed her cheek. She gave him a watery smile and pressed the treats on both of them, John eating more out of guilt than anything else. Once they were both full of them Mrs. Hudson tidied up and then headed back downstairs. Hamish was eying John up and he fully suspected a Q&A session.

“Who is Sherlock?”

“I’ll tell you when you’re older.”

“How much older?”

“Mmm, fifty.”

“Why?”

“Because it hurts to talk about him. Did you see how Mrs. Hudson looked sad?”

“Sad?” The boy processed for a moment, and then made a sad face fit to break hearts, “Like this?”

“Yes.”

“Why does it make you sad?”

“Because I miss him and he isn’t coming back.”

“Why?”

“I’ll tell you when you’re older.”

“Is Sherlock my Papa?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you call him Sherlock instead of Papa?”

“Because he isn’t _my_ Papa, he’s your Papa. He was _my_ …” John stopped and swallowed in pain.

_Boyfriend. Lover. Partner. Best friend. The brilliant man who made me live again when all I wanted was to fade away into the past. Just like you’re doing. Making me live again when I don’t want to. Mycroft, you bastard._

“Your what?”

“My husband.”

“What’s a husband?”

“Someone you spend the rest of your life with.”

“Does that mean you aren’t alive anymore?”

“I didn’t feel like I was, but apparently children can make you feel alive again.”

“So I’m your husband?”

John laughed, “You’re my son.”

“Is Sherlock not alive?”

John smiled sadly at him, “No, Sherlock isn’t alive anymore.”

“Can _I_ make him alive again? I want to meet him.”

“I’m afraid that’s a bit out of your power, my dear,” John sighed, “Some people just can’t be brought back. Or replaced.”

Asimov placed John’s proper breakfast in front of him and he stared at it morosely, his stomach groaning in protest of all the sweets he’d consumed. Asimov had been a proper maid/nanny for ages now and John was adjusting. He barely looked at the android’s face. He wasn’t Sherlock and John was fully aware of it, as he never had been with Hoffnig; perhaps it was because Mycroft had made him and Sherlock had made the other. There were still moments, however, when John turned to him to shout something Hamish had done- good or bad- before recalling that the android didn’t actually care. It was just programmed to respond, not capable of love, hate, or anything besides a very mechanical smile. He hadn’t taken it to bed with him since that first time, but he knew he would again- once he was lonely enough to need a warm body with him. He still maintained a bit of hope that someday he’d feel ready to move on to a _real_ warm body.

XXX

Sherlock/Moriarty smiled at Moran as he handed him a glass of wine. His own was empty, but it was Moriarty’s mad habit to pretend to eat and drink around his ‘people’ despite the fact he couldn’t actually swallow anything. Moran was the last threat. The last threat that stood between him and returning to John to re-inhabit the Hoffnig/Asimov body and _finally_ be with the man he loved again. Moran, however, was proving to be the most difficult link. Apparently he had a Hollywood Romance Worthy Crush on Moriarty- capital letters necessary. He was under the distinct impression that Moriarty had been toying with him for years, evidently unaware that the man was literally incapable of returning his physical feelings due to the lack of any kind of genitalia or sex drive.

The odd part about being genderless, was that Sherlock still remembered and _missed_ sex. He sometimes had Phantom Limb Syndrome, and would reach for his privates after utilizing sleep mode, convinced that he had morning wood. He was looking forward to going home and making love to John for hours on end. After three years without the man- or a penis- he was in desperate need for some loving.

_I hope he still has that cock cage. Or the ring. Yesssss, the ring. That let me see him hard and aching. Then I can have him from every angle before swallowing down his come when he’s boneless and tired and aching for release._

“Well, Jim,” Moran smiled, “Here’s to us. It’s about damn time.”

Sherlock/Moriarty chuckled. It was John finally taking Asimov to bed that gave Sherlock this idea. He’d been having trouble getting to Moran despite him being ‘Moriarty’s assassin’. The man was simply too damn paranoid. He was, however, severely misinformed; he had no idea that Moriarty’s body didn’t have a hole to piss out of. Literally. He might look realistic, but he was a Ken doll underneath his clothes. A stuffed sock gave him the illusion of genitalia and he didn’t even produce saliva.

“Here here!” Sherlock/Moriarty cheered, and raised his empty glass in toast.

He smiled around the rim as Moran swallowed down the poisoned fluids. Finally. He could go home to John and…

The doors flew open and several men in suits swarmed the room. Sherlock/Moriarty threw up his hands in surrender, but apparently they weren’t taking hostages. They shot them both.

“That one’s human, get him with a proper bullet!” One of the men shouted, and Moran received a shot to the head.

Sherlock/Moriarty lay on the ground twitching, and it took a moment for his circuits to process what had happened. Bullets might cause damage, but they were far more likely to disable an arm or leg temporarily then send him onto the floor in a convulsing mess. Yet here he lay, twitching and… aroused?

Pleasure shot through Sherlock/Moriarty’s body and he spent a moment gasping in shock as he _felt_ his cock harden.

_Gold. They shot me with a gold bullet. I’m hallucinating. None of this is real._

_John’s hands stroked up and down his hips._

_It isn’t real._

_His lover’s face smiled down on him from above._

_It isn’t real_.

_Their lips pressed together._

_John!_

_He felt his lover sink down on his cock, moaning in pleasure as he began to ride him. That pain/pleasure/turning to more pleasure/Yes! Sherlock! Yes!/ crossing his face in a flash as he adjusted to Sherlock’s girth. John was calling out his name, head thrown back in bliss as Sherlock angled his hips and thrust frantically up to pleasure his lover as they both chased their release._

“I’ve missed you. Oh, gods, John, I missed you so much.”

_Sherlock! Oh, fuck! Sherlock! My love! I needed you!_

“I’m here, John. Shhh, take what you need. Uhn! Take it _all!_ ”

_Sherlock! Sherlock!_

“Jooooohn!”

_John’s back bowed as he came in rivulets, his body trembling with pleasure. Sherlock moaned and spread the warm substance across his chest, raising his fingers to lap at the salty taste of the man he loved more than life itself. The man he’d died for._

_Sherlock! Come inside me! Please! I need to feel you, to feel that you’re real again!_

“Yes, John. Anything for you. Anything.”

_Then Sherlock was coming, his own body arching as he gasped in pleasure and rolled immediately into a second orgasm. Satisfaction pulsed through him and he sobbed John’s name in near worshipfulness as darkness decended and the lovely warmth of John’s body laying across his lulled him into a pleasant sleep._

Androids don’t sleep.

Not real sleep.

They don’t _fall_ asleep.

_The man I died for… twice._

XXX

Mycroft stood over the remains of Moriarty, staring coldly down at the soft smile on his face. He’d hoped to give the man a horrid death after what he did to Sherlock, but apparently the gold had sent him into a rather peaceful sleep before ending his miserable life. He was rather glad he’d missed it since he was told that the man had cried out for John repeatedly. Mycroft would have to talk to John about that. He was certain the ex-army doctor was not in cahoots with Moriarty, but he might know why the fiend had apparently harbored amorous feelings for him. Perhaps something had happened that would shed light on the doctor’s mind a bit more, and give Mycroft a direction to push his therapy in.

“Search him,” Mycroft ordered.

His men dove in and stripped the android, revealing an alarmingly false body beneath, and found numerous items of interest.

“Odd. He was poisoning someone? Ah, Moran, I see, but why? He hasn’t outlived his usefulness, and Moriarty never gets his hands dirty. Then again… several of his network have suddenly died. Inexplicably, even.”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed and he set the vial of toxins aside and unfolded a very worn envelope. A quick slit across the top opened it and out fell an equally old letter. At least three years old. With a feeling of dread, Mycroft opened the letter and read it. The blood drained from his face and he very nearly fainted. Instead, he took several steadying breaths and willed his emotions to the back of his mind. There would be time for regret- and mourning- later.

“Take that corpse and destroy it,” Mycroft ordered, “But only after Susan has removed the insides. I want to see how he worked.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I need to get home. Immediately. It seems I have some unfinished business,” Mycroft stated, and strolled quickly from the room with his umbrella clutched like a sword. He would need a shield as well to get through the next few hours. A lie would do nicely.

XXX

“He wrote it?”

“Yes,” Mycroft replied, sipping his tea, “It wasn’t addressed, so I’m afraid I read it before realizing what it was and that it was genuine. My apologies for breeching your privacy.”

“It’s… er… private?”

“Quite. It seems Moriarty stole it off of my brother before- or perhaps during- their events on the roof of St. Bart’s. Most likely he never read it as it was still in a sealed envelope on his person, and the envelope appeared to have been the original one as best I could tell- and we all know how skilled my own deductive skills are.”

“Why never open it? Why steal it at all?” John asked, turning the envelope over in his hands and daring himself to open the torn half and read the contents.

“A trophy? He was quite intelligent himself, perhaps he knew what it contained and simply never wanted it to reach you.”

“I guess we’ll never know,” John sighed, “You have his… remains?”

“Destroyed. I took a look at his inner workings, but they revealed nothing besides similar parts to what Sherlock’s former body contained. It seems they had each isolated the key to android life and sought to protect their own past the e-bomb. Sadly, only Moriarty succeeded.”

John stared at the letter for a bit longer before sitting it aside, “More tea?”

“No thankyou,” Mycroft replied with a heavy sigh, “I think I will go home and drown myself in something a bit stronger. You’ll be alright?”

“Yes. I suppose this is the end, right? You won’t be looking after me anymore? Now it’s all settled?” John tried to keep the longing from his voice. This man was his last link to Sherlock.

“Oh, John. You don’t think I’d do that, do you? You must think me more machine than he was! Good day, doctor. You’ll be seeing me soon,” Mycroft turned with a twirl of his umbrella, bussed Hamish on the forehead on his way out the door, and left their flat as silently as he had entered.

John turned Hamish over to Asimov and headed for the bedroom to read in private. He took a deep breath before opening the envelope. He had a feeling that this was going to change everything for him once again, that this would be the tombstone he’d never gotten when Sherlock ‘died’. That he could finally move into the acceptance phase of his mourning.

_Dear John,_

_Is it cruel to start a letter such as this with those words? I am leaving you, but I hope to return. However, in the horrid off chance that my plans to survive fail, I leave you with these words:_

_I love you._

_I will always love you._

_You taught me to love._

_I am forever grateful for your lessons, even the ones that hurt my ‘heart’._

_I wanted to spend forever with you, but I cannot grow old with you, so I planned to spend it dying my hair progressively more grey and smiling too much so that my face creased eventually. I know you would have helped me with the smiling part. I hope that if this letter has reached you instead of me that you have remained my strong soldier, my caring doctor, my imaginative blogger, and my beloved friend. I hope that others have filled in the parts of your life that have been made empty without me. (I also selfishly hope that there are parts that are empty now, because it means that I had filled part of your life and that my existence was more than physical.) I hope that you moved on; loved and were loved as you deserved to be. Possibly better than I managed. _

_I believe Mycroft is working on building us a child; I’ve certainly dropped enough hints to get him to start on it. Go to him. Trust him. He was always there for me when I needed him and politely absent when I needed space. Take that bit of life for yourself and make it your own. Kiss it’s cheeks and tell it stories. Tell it about the mad detective and your mad adventures through London. Tell it… tell him… about his other father, and that he would have loved and cherished him as well. Don’t let me end here, John. Don’t let my fears about death- that I will simply cease to be- become reality. Let me live on through you and our son. _

_Your Would-Have-Been-Husband,_

_Sherlock Holmes_

John dashed the tears from his face and blew his nose. He stood at military attention in front of his mirror and straightened his clothes. He gave himself a firm nod and turned sharply on his toes. He all but marched out into the sitting room and ordered Asimov into their… his… bedroom to de-activate him.

“Sorry, Asimov,” John sighed, tucking the android into the closet, “You really are just a corpse, and it’s long time I buried you. I’ll send you back to Mycroft. He’ll put your parts to good use.”

John stepped out into the sitting room and smiled at his son, who turned a cheerful face to his Daddy and smiled back. He was reading his first chapter book. It was a mystery.

“I think I know how it ends, Da,” He informed John, “I think it was the maid. I can’t wait to tell Erin at school tomorrow that I’ve finished it. Do you think she’ll lend me another?”

John grinned and sat down beside his son. The lad was smitten. It was adorable to see him in the throes of his first primary school crush. Ever since he’d passed his sentience test two years prior John had basically stopped thinking of him as an android. He never behaved like one- had no odd glitches like Sherlock had. He was simply a very intelligent young boy who happened to survive on oil and saw a mechanic (Uncle Myc) instead of a doctor.

“You know, I bet she will. You get your charm from me,” John winked, “Now your brilliance… that you get from your Papa.”

Hamish’s head shot up and he stared wide-eyed at John.

“I’m older?” He asked, almost breathlessly, “You’ll finally tell me about him? I know he’s dead, Uncle Myc told me, but I want to know _about_ him.”

John sighed, “It wasn’t you who needed to get older, it was me. I needed to… I needed to heal a bit. I’m ready now, and I’m sorry you had to wait. Let’s start with that skull on the mantle. Your Papa was a brilliant man, but a bit eccentric…”

Fin.


End file.
